


Sightlines

by cat_77



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Gen, Mild Language, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1602287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone was at ground zero during the attack, and a single victory doesn't mean the war has been won.  If you can keep your eyes open though, you might just still survive.</p>
<p>[Major spoilers for <i>Captain America: Winter Soldier</i> and the last half of Season One of <i>Agents of SHIELD</i>.]</p>
<p>[AKA: One take as to where Clint fits in with everything that went down.  Will undoubtedly be Jossed.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sightlines

It wasn't that she was resigning from active duty, not at all. She had simply hoped for more than a several day break to recover from a gunshot wound, cracked ribs, and purposefully electrocuting herself. She didn't think that was too much to ask for, really, but apparently this was one of the few times in life in which she was to be proven wrong.

She had already used part of her downtime to obtain the file for Steve. Everything she could find about the Winter Soldier project, plus more than a fair share of her personal notes left encrypted on a drive locked solely to his enhanced biometrics tucked away within the pages. She walked away from the graveyard leaving him to his research and to his quest to redeem his once friend with a new friend at his side, ready to assist him if needed, but truly expecting that assistance to be several days out at the earliest and several months at the practical.

She entertained herself with thoughts of Fury's attempt at a new alias and wondering how long it would last before he chucked it or needed the known clout of his former standing, but mostly thought of her quiet apartment under an assumed name, cleared from the now public SHIELD records along with Rogers', Wilson's, and a handful of others', fully stocked with analgesics, frozen meals, and a bubble bath mixture that she would admit to no one. She was debating if she needed to pick up anything extra along the way home when her phone rang. Too well trained to ignore it, and too well trained to answer it in public when the relative solitude of her car was seconds away, she closed the door and glanced at the caller ID, resisting the urge to groan when she saw "Stark Industries" flash across the screen.

She slid the bar to answer it anyway, and greeted whoever was on the other end of the line with a crisp, "Please remove me from your calling lists as well as delete this number from your files."

"Mr. Stark would be most displeased if I did so, as it has taken quite some time to track this number," the automated voice of JARVIS replied. It sounded almost amused, and she couldn't tell if that irked her or not.

She settled against the leather seat with a sigh. "Mr. Stark can k-"

The slightest of clicks and there was a hush of background noise, the sounds of a not completely soundproofed office with more than a single person making assurances of various things to what sounded like various legal and military groups. "Ms. Rushman?" a far too familiar voice said with far too much familiarity. Stark didn't wait for her to acknowledge him which was fine as pleasantries could be taxing and they were both past that. The fact he used the name of an alias he already knew to be false raised all sorts of red flags with her though. "I was hoping I would catch you. Pepper, er, Ms. Potts gave me your contact info, said you were the best for the job."

"No promises, but how may I assist you, Mr. Stark?" she asked. If he was keeping up the facade, it meant he didn't trust he wasn't being listened in on, so she might as well play along.

"There's an account that you are far more familiar with than anyone else here, and we desperately need some cross-checking done on it," he replied. There was tapping, less of a keystroke and more of a fingers across a desktop sort of rhythm to it.

"Don't you have supercomputers for that?" she asked dryly. 

"This one needs a more personal touch," he insisted. "Pep had your replacement Mary, Maria, Mountain, Montana, whatever - she was your assistant and was upgraded - look at it, but didn't like her review, thought there was something missing, something just not reporting right. You have the better instincts on these things, so..."

Natasha resolutely did not snort at that. Stark was as subtle as a brick house, but he got his point across. Hill was involved. Hill would make him eat his thousand dollar sunglasses for calling her an assistant's assistant. "I trust Maria, she's very good at what she does. Not to mention you know I am on medical leave right now," she hedged. He gave her information under an admittedly thin veil of espionage, so it was only fitting she do the same for him. If he needed her for something, he needed to know her current limitations. He may have referenced Commander Hill, but there was no certainty she had shared everything with him and, in truth, it was far more likely she had not.

"Yes, I know, and we are all so happy the baby is now healthy and hale and all that," he rushed through and yeah, Maria would be going light on him in comparison to what she would do herself. "And you do know Stark Industries has an excellent daycare program for little Francis when you return, but we really do need you to check on that Flynn account prior to your leave expiring."

And there, that was it, that was what made her freeze in place, her heart pound in her chest, her blood suddenly run so very cold. Flynn, as in Errol, as in the actor famous for playing an archer. Francis, as in Clinton Francis Barton, as in her partner in crime and salvation far more times than she could count. She licked her lips, a tell only if she could be seen, the action taking a fraction of a second before she regained control of herself once more. "I thought we wrapped that file up long ago," she told him, voice giving away nothing. "It should be in the archives, safe and sound."

"Yeah, it should and yet it's not," Stark agreed. He had been rushed throughout the conversation thus far, only slightly more than usual but he was attempting to converse with her while clearly surrounded by others. She took this to mean he thought it was a safer, more secure environment than his own personal and private offices which were undoubtedly being swept for bugs as they spoke. "Margaret, Marie, whatever - she claims she needs a figure from it to wrap up her latest project. We're on a deadline here, and I need that data ASAP. You'll get time and a half plus a bonus if you can wrap it up all pretty-like in the next two days. I always did love your presentations best and I swear your wannabe can barely make a usable PowerPoint. Deal?"

"Deal," she agreed with a laugh fake and empty to her own ears, but had proved effective in the past. She hung up the phone and banged her head against the headrest with a muttered, "Shit."

She glanced over to where she had left Steve and Sam and debated including them as they had proven to make quite the team. They were already walking in the opposite direction though, body language and grip on the file expressing their intentions. She would let them be for now. For all she knew, Clint had caught wind of what was going on and did the smart thing for once and laid low. The again, this was Barton, which meant he was more than likely over his head, outnumbered and outgunned and winning by a thread. It wouldn't be the first time she had pulled his ass out of the fire, and she could always call in the reinforcements if they were proved to be needed. Two days was nothing by their usual standards and no reason to be concerned, save for the fact the last week had shown her just how wrong that assumption could be.

She stopped at Cecil's Pizzeria on the way back to her apartment, calling ahead for pickup and tipping heavily. She tossed the box down on the counter as soon as she passed the security scans into her place, activated full lockdown, and did a thorough search before she dared to kick off her shoes. She opened the container to find two calzones, one of which she ripped apart to reveal a slim box of inert and non-reactive metal, and the other of which she munched on while flipping that box open to reveal an old ID with a data strip she was fairly certain was about to grant her access to files maybe two other people had seen to date. 

She activated the biometrics on the badge and logged into the supposedly standard Stark Industries intranet. She had the system scan both her and the badge, and then sat back while an entirely different system unfolded onto her laptop. "Good evening, Ms. Rushman," the soothing tones of JARVIS sounded. "Transferring now. Would you prefer your search history show case law or entertainment options?"

She was tempted to say porn just to make Tony do a double-take, but decided to behave and instead said, "Movies, something in the Disney genre."

"Of course. I shall locate something appropriate for young Master Francis," came the reply.

It didn't take long to go through the data because there simply wasn't that much. She recognized some of it from the target files of the helicarriers, but it was truncated to a specific location and not the thousands of possible hits. Barton's apartment had been tagged, as had the nearest SHIELD-sponsored safehouses. However, when Steve had managed to switch the blade and stop the firing sequence, apparently the moles within SHIELD had decided to take a more direct approach to handling at least this situation. 

As far as they saw it, Barton was a threat: he had ties to both SHIELD and to the Avengers Initiative with all the direness of people breaking protocol to do the right thing associated with those ties, but he had also survived and recovered from Loki's control. That meant the order issued had been to disable and retrieve if possible, and eliminate only as a last resort. She knew Clint well enough to know how that would end for all involved, which is likely why the agents assigned to go after him were those known for their brutality and lack of concern of collateral damage. They would bring him in, with as many of the important pieces intact as possible, but not much else.

The question was just where they were to bring him in from. He had been on assignment, all the proper paperwork filed within the SHIELD hierarchy. Said assignment's expected termination date placed him possibly returning smack dab in the middle of everything going to hell. He hadn't reported though, hadn't checked in or announced his return, and neither had the handler for his specific assignment. 

So why did they target his own personal apartment versus his last known whereabouts?

She figured the only way of determining that for certain was to check for herself. She finished the last of her calzone, washed up after herself, and pressed the unassuming brick in a wall full of them to have the facade pull back and a conveyor of weapons roll up. Guns and gauntlets were self-explanatory and expected, and she grabbed a handful of extra Widow Stings because she had such a recent reminder of their effectiveness. She sorted through various other pieces of tech and arsenals and chose things lightweight and easily concealable.

She didn't get her long soak in a bubble bath, but she did get a perfunctory shower and a check of her existing wounds. She believed she should know her true physical status before beginning any mission. Not that any actual wounds would deter her from said mission, but she at least knew her weaknesses in advance, and knew to protect her right side a little more than usual and that she had limited movement of her left shoulder from her still-healing bullet wound. 

She reminded herself not to reach for her SHIELD issued suit, and opted for her personal gear instead. The body armor was thin and flexible, and easy enough to cover with street clothes so that no one was the wiser. Her usual belt of goodies didn't quite flow with the outfit, but at least she had multiple pockets to tuck things away in, and an innocuous shoulder bag to carry the larger and possibly more disposable of items.

She opted for Clint's apartment first, having long ago earned biometric approval, even in full lockdown unless he specifically overrode it. She passed the initial scans along the stairwell, and reached for the "key" that would both grant her full access and allow her to look like a standard visiting guest. She found it wasn't needed, however, as she took in the door itself: reinforced hybrid polymer shattered and cracked and clearly entered with extreme force, caution tape strewn about haphazardly in a less than professional manner.

She reached for the handle anyway, but was stopped by a creak of noise behind her. She whipped around, perhaps faster than a causal visitor, and resisted the urge to level a weapon at the source. Given that the source was a wide-eyed youth with unkempt dark curls, it was perhaps the best choice after all.

"Are you here for him?" a bold yet clearly terrified voice asked.

"I'm a friend of his and wished to check on him, yes," she confirmed.

The child nodded as if that sorted it. "I remember you, you've been here before," he said. A frown, and then, "The other guys, they hadn't been."

She raised an eyebrow in inquiry but, when none was forthcoming, crouched to the kid's height and asked, "Can you tell me about these guys? Maybe they were friends too and already helped him."

The kid snorted and she could kind of see why Clint would have befriended him based on attitude alone. "Which guys?" he asked. "The ones that totally blew up the door to break it down and knocked mom's favorite piggy off the shelf when this whole place shook? Or the cops that came after? Because I think they were the same guys. Either that, or they shared a tattoo artist."

Michaels then. It in no way surprised her that he and his team were not to loyal to Fury. "Good eye," she commented, not daring to doubt his observations.

"Thanks," the kid said with a flick of a humorless smile. "Clint says the same. He's a bonafide hero you know - saved New York and all that. These guys were rude though, didn't treat his stuff nice at all. It's like they didn't even know he was Hawkguy, and it's not like that's exactly a secret."

She felt her lips curl slightly, which apparently won her further approval from the boy. "Was he here? When they came?"

The kid shook his head. "Didn't hear him and, let's face it, he'd have said a lot of words mom doesn't like me repeating if he was around when they tried that," he replied with a rough gesture towards the ruins of the door.

"True," she agreed with the same solemn contemplativeness. She jerked her head in the direction of the apartment and asked, "Mind if I take a look? Maybe I can clean it up a bit before he comes back, or maybe I can figure out where he ran off to."

The boy crossed his arms in front of him and leveled her a look that had to be his best approximation of his mother's before he warned, "Be careful though. Those guys might have tried some funny business. I've seen movies with tiny little wires and explosives and sh-, um, stuff. I know you're secretly just as cool as he is but without the goofy name, but are you sure you don't want backup?"

Natasha resisted the urge to laugh and instead held up a cell phone and said, "I've got Captain America on speed dial, that good enough?"

She received a slow nod for that, still serious but with a gleam of anticipation in his dark eyes. "That'll do," he agreed. He slunk back to wherever he had been, undoubtedly still watching her, but hopefully out of range of any fires she might start.

Key tucked away and replaced with a small electrical charge, she approached. She figured that, by now, whoever lay in wait on the other side of the door was good and ready for her, so she left a gun within easy reach yet still tucked away from view by her coat so as not to be overtly obvious. Sure enough, she had barely crossed the threshold when she sensed the movement. She ducked and evaded and tossed the charge in the direction of the source and not the reaction of the distraction, a decidedly non-fletched projectile embedding itself where her head would have been while a decidedly non-Barton-like voice grunted in pain.

She rounded the edge of the couch the man had been using for cover and watched him twitch for a moment before she knocked him truly unconscious. She was under no assumptions that he had not already called for backup, and gave herself a matter of minutes before said backup arrived. That gave her just enough time for a quick perusal for clues as to just where the hell Barton had disappeared to.

While most of the apartment was Clint's shabbier shade of chic, it was obvious the place had been tossed at least once. She ignored that and focused on tells as to whether Clint had even been there at the time or was long gone before Hydra hit. There was a bag on the floor near the kitchen island, covered in dried mud and gunk and hopefully not blood. She assumed that was his gear from his mission, even as she assumed he had left it behind as everything useful from it had already been used. 

There was a thin trail of blood leading from the kitchen to the far window, a footprint in a recognizable size on the sill that led to the fire escape. A glance showed the drop to the bushes below and, barely detectable, a pair of well-worn combat boots tangled between the branches and the brickwork. Crude, but effective if the footprints of a different size and shape in the rust of the escape were to be believed. The footprints themselves led upwards, Clint's reputation for a love of heights clearly at play.

She took another minute to check the bedroom, not surprised when she found nothing of use there. It was when she left the bedroom and headed back towards the living room that she found what she needed. Clint's old school world map, most of the borders long changed and countries long gone, with precisely three arrows sticking out of it at odd angles. One marked the Hub and she knew he wasn't dumb enough to show up there. Another marked the wilds of the Yukon and she grinned at Hydra chasing ghosts in the freezing wilderness. The final one was soundly in the middle of Malta, where she knew of no SHIELD bases and no safehouses.

She doubted he would actually go there, not so soon after returning to the states, and most definitely not risking the scrutiny involved in international travel right now. There had been a mission though, roughly three years back, where the intel had gone horribly wrong in all the right ways. They were left trapped in a high-end hotel, living the lives of their cover stories, eating their weight in luxury foods all billed to Sitwell's personal accounts.

There was an international bazaar only six miles away, the seafood not quite as good but caviar almost up to snuff. The place was shut down several months back for violating food, health, and international law, leaving dozens of stalls perfect for providing cover.

The slam of a door and the pounding of footsteps warned her that her time for review had expired. She flipped the hidden switch to cause the wall behind a rarely used bookshelf to swing open and reveal Barton's own version of her weapons stash, not at all surprised to find a large portion of the gear noticeably missing. The nice thing about Clint's set up, however, was the wall within the wall. The weapons were only recessed about a foot and a half back and the portion to the side had its own trigger. She squeezed herself through the small opening and keyed everything to slam shut behind her, hoping the case would slide back into place before the newly uninvited guests arrived.

She waited in the not quite crawlspace for several long minutes, not wishing to risk making a sound when she could so clearly hear the others on the other side. They had found her handiwork and were looking for more, rationalizing escape routes and meet up points and, thankfully, finding neither the stash nor the area behind it.

Barton had clearly found it, however, and made good use of it. She waited for the noise outside to subside to flip on a flashlight to prevent the risk of tripping over anything he had left behind. It was a good call as the ground was littered with an empty quiver, damaged bow, and a first aid kit. The kit was less an actual kit and more a mostly empty box with wrappers and used bandages strewn about, smears of fingerprints on its side and a clear handprint on the wall itself. Further along the passage was a pile of ripped and stained clothing, and she examined that to determine her once and likely future partner had a wound to the upper thigh and possibly forearm though it was difficult to know for certain since the idiot rarely wore full sleeves.

That seemed to be the worst of it, which was as positive of a sign as she was going to get. Barton had clearly stopped home, either injured prior to or during the visit, restocked, and ran. How much he knew about the Hydra fiasco was yet to be determined, but he at least knew he was at personal risk. Given that he had left anything with a SHIELD logo behind, he must have determined it was as good as a target on his back as well. She may like to tease that the man had the survival instincts of a chickadee, but occasionally he graduated up to the level of a pigeon instead.

She followed the passage to the ladder, then down to the next passage and through all the other little nooks and crannies until she reached the exit. This one thankfully had a glimpse at the outside and she was able to determine there was at least a chance of her making it free and clear before she dared to step back out into the semi-light of the world.

She laid several false trails and still stuck to the shadows, one of Clint's old hoodies atop her own lighter gear to further disguise her shape and size and telltale hair. She slouched and skulked and pretended to window shop and even went so far as to pick up a soda and some chips from the corner store to keep her cover. It took her longer than she would have liked to reach the bazaar, but at least she was fairly certain she had no tail along the way.

Of course it all turned out for naught when she finally got there. The parts of the ruins of the wood and metal structure that were not currently smoldering ashes were in active flames. She caught a glimpse of Dagne and Michaels himself mixed in with the fire crew and curious bystanders, a near phalanx of men loyal to them creating a human barrier around the structure to prevent anything that might still be living inside from getting out.

A few muttered comments and well placed hints had a group of teens convinced a stray dog was trapped and, in their flurry and insistence at saving the nonexistent thing, she was able to slip through to a place with a better vantage point of the situation as a whole. The stalls were empty, with no footprints in the caked layers of soaked soot. Nothing was cleared or seemed to lead away from the area in any shape or form, and the only evidence that anyone had been there recently was one of Michaels' men with cobwebs and mold and the scent of rotting fish about him.

Safely ensconced with some stoned twenty-somethings lamenting the loss of one of their favorite hangouts, she dared to eye the nearby rooftops and question, "Just where the hell are you?"

She climbed to the roof of the building across from Clint's and disabled the sentry there. A half hour of listening in on his radio gave her nothing but more names to add to the list of traitors. The sun had long since set and the various neon signs were providing better sightlines than the street lamps and she still was at a loss as to where Barton could have tucked himself away to.

She turned, ready to break back in to his apartment to look for further clues, when she saw it. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes hurt from rolling quite that much when she sighed, "You have got to be kidding me."

Paulie's Parlour was an unassuming place tucked between gyro shop and a children's bookstore. She walked in to the smell of sugary sweet handmade cones and the cool scent of fresh cream. The man behind the counter eyed her sweatshirt, smiled, and over-exaggeratedly said, "Yes, the washroom is through there, ma'am," with a wink.

Down a short hallway, she found doors that led to a Ladies' Room, a Men's Room, and something marked "Employees Only." She chose the final door to find a beat up old desk with a beat up old laptop and a scattering of wrinkled spreadsheets and schedules strewn about it. There were two file cabinets, a small wooden table with a kettle and dishes, and a wall of hooks with bright green, neatly labeled aprons hanging from each. To the right was a swinging door that led back to the kitchen and freezer area. Straight ahead was a door that led decidedly elsewhere.

She pushed open the latter to reveal a dimly lit store room. Cardboard boxes were stacked atop pallets, some open to reveal packs of napkins and disposable bowls or cutlery. It was there she found her first sign: a pallet shifted from its careful alignment, providing the smallest sliver of a sightline to whatever lay behind it. Her hand reached for her gun out of instinct, and there was the slightest glint of light within the shadows provided by the boxes, the twang of a bowstring being pulled taut that was audible if you knew to listen for it above the rumble of the vents and bang of dishes on the other side of the wall.

"Hello, Clint," she said, refusing to lower her weapon.

"Was wondering how long it would take you to find me," came a grunt of a response. There was pain and exhaustion and something else all wrapped up in the tone behind the simple sentence, and she had a feeling Barton had a story to tell as much as she herself had one to share.

"Sorry for the delay, but I expected you to be brighter than to explicitly spell out where you were hiding," she replied.

A chuckle, and then, "You totally went to the bazaar, didn't you?"

"Which is in flames now, by the way," she shrugged. Then, because she could, "Malta, Clint. _Malta_."

"Yeah, as in the Malta Shopa," he defended himself. He laughed and it turned into a cough, the glint of the arrow shaking slightly with the movement.

She smiled despite herself, his stupidity familiar and comforting, two things she really appreciated right about now. "So, am I allowed to come back there yet? Because this is going to look awkward if someone needs a spoon," she asked.

"Depends," he replied, arrow steady once more. "You going to try to kill me like Reynolds' team?"

She lowered her weapon but made no attempt to flip the safety back on. "If I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead and we both know it."

Finally, the arrow lowered. There was a scrape of wood on concrete, and then, "Pull up a pallet; we're here 'til close."

She stepped around the makeshift barrier and only slightly narrowed her eyes at what she found. Barton was sprawled out between the boxes, wounded leg propped up on the edge of a wood frame, back slouched against a dull gray wall. He was sweaty and pale and there was fresh blood on his bandages, bruises lining his exposed forearms save for where one was wrapped haphazardly in gauze. A bag of gear lay to his side along with the detritus of two abandoned malts and what looked to be a wrapper from the gyro place. His bow lay across his lap and his quiver positioned for ease of access.

There were a lot of things she wanted to say, not the least of which being how good it was to see him alive if not well, or maybe tell him how the slightest of strain somewhere deep in her chest lessened just to see him there. Instead, she slid down beside him and said, "So, Reynolds then?"

"Left me high and dry mid-mission," he confirmed. "Then tried to shoot me outright when I made it back to the safehouse."

She nodded, pieces clicking into place. Reynolds would have gotten the blast message and acted per his orders, undoubtedly considering a sniper loyal to Fury to be a threat and taking steps to neutralize it until someone higher up decided they wanted Barton brought in instead. "You can add Dagne and Michaels to the list of traitors as well," she advised, shifting slightly to get more comfortable.

He hummed in contemplation. "Thought the team at my place looked familiar," he admitted. "Anyone else?"

She shrugged again, the wound to her shoulder reminding her of its presence with the action. "Oh, about roughly half of SHIELD or so. Estimates are at about seventy percent right now."

He turned to face her, and looked like it took a lot to do so. "Are you fucking kidding me? Because this is so not the time for you to get a sense of humor." His eyes were wide and doubting, lips chapped and slightly open in disbelief, yet the set of his shoulders told her he already suspected the truth.

She looked him as much in the eye as she could with the low light and odd angle. "I have always had a sense of humor, you just don't appreciate it, and no, I am not kidding." She let him simmer and stammer over that one for a beat before she gave him a break and explained, "Hydra. They have been lurking in the system, literally, for the past seventy years and chose now to go live."

"So the news reports about helicarriers crashing and SHIELD falling? Did they win? Did they take us down?" he asked. Clearly even the concept of such a thing pained him, though she appreciated the fact that he so clearly included her in the "us" portion of the reasoning. He had no proof of which side she was on, yet still declared his allegiance to her.

"The helicarriers were a very small amount of us taking on a very large amount of them and winning. Kind of." Off of his look, she expanded, "We managed to stop them from killing thousands of people and implementing a system to kill millions more. I count that as a win, even given the losses to the infrastructure we know and loathe so well."

He banged his head back against the wall and it seemed to accentuate the bruises already there. "Who?" he asked, a mixture of forlorn and resigned.

"Who is loyal and who is the enemy?" she confirmed. She shook her head. "We're still trying to sort that out. There's a lot.... There's a lot of loss, either from attrition or sacrifice. It will take months if not years to know the full score."

"Tell me what you know so far?" he requested, pleaded almost, the not knowing a pain she understood far too well. So she did, pausing only when some kid with an unfortunate case of acne needed to refill the napkin dispenser up front and then continuing on with her tale of danger and adventure and stupidity while they sipped at her soda and she nudged the chips in his direction. 

She told him about how high up in the ranks the infection went, and how long it had lain hidden in plain sight. She told him what she knew of who was targeted and why and who was behind it. She told him of the role Steve and even Sam played, of how they were almost lost, of who they did lose and who they managed to save. She told him of the Winter Soldier and who he really was, how he was still out there and how Steve thought he might be redeemable and how she truly had to question that devotion even as she sat next to the closest thing to that level of connection she had in her own life, even as she subtly checked his wounds and resolutely denied her own.

In exchange, he told her his own story. Of how he was on an op to take out a weapons manufacturer with ties to the less than altruistic. Of how he had the guy sighted and ready and asked for his handler for final approval. Of how not only was he met with dead air, but his target mysteriously got a call and Clint himself was mysteriously discovered and how the op as a whole mysteriously went to complete and utter shit.

He managed to escape, found his team's van and his sole escape route long gone, and headed to the nearest safehouse, only to find it not so safe. Not only was an associate of his target there, but said associate was communicating freely with Reynolds, his supposed handler for the mission. Shots were fired, more at him than by him, and so he booked it out of there. His sole successful attempt at contacting SHIELD resulted in another team coming after him, so he went dark, snuck into a cargo hold headed back to the states and meandered his way from there. Another team was waiting for him at his place, so he left tells the few he trusted would be able to unravel and both hoped for the best and hoped for an opening to get to a place off the grid from SHIELD and whatever else there was after him. He had caught bits and pieces from the news along the way, read between the lines of what was public knowledge, but had been pretty much operating blind until she found him.

"Really hoping you are on the side of good here, Nat," he admitted. "Or, you know, at least inviting me to a side of less than historically fucked up evil with enough moral ambiguity so that I can pretend it's good."

She huffed despite herself and admitted, "I missed you, you idiot."

"I missed you too," he smiled. He slung an arm around her shoulder, hand barely brushing against her still healing wound. She thought she stopped herself from outright flinching, but he knew her far too well because, with the same languid tone and relaxed posture he said, "And there, there's the injury you've been hiding and hoped I wouldn't notice. Gunshot or knife?"

"What makes you think it's either?" she asked archly.

He rolled his eyes and she decided not to smack him for it. "You went up against the Winter Soldier, the only guy who has ever left any noticeable scars on you. You took down how many agents in how many flying fortresses? You played around with a guy who is pretty much indestructible and I know you well enough to know that's not an actual benefit but a challenge to keep up or do better. Ain't no way you getting out of that with only a chipped nail."

She ran her thumb over the slightly jagged edge of her index finger and pretended to examine the less than perfect polish. "Rogers was shot," she finally said, going for the distraction and knowing it would work. "He's out of ICU."

"What?" Clint exclaimed, far louder than their previously hushed voices. He pushed up off of her, a little too much pressure on her wound, but she didn't blame him for his reaction. "Steve, Captain Fricken America, was shot? Enough to need medical care? Enough to need _intensive_ medical care, and you just thought to tell me this now?"

"He got better," she defended herself. She rolled her aching shoulder and muttered, "Faster than I did." Louder, she clarified, "Multiple gunshot wounds, multiple broken bones including a skull fracture, and he's up and walking around, looking like his usual photogenic self already."

Clint slouched back down again, not quite relaxed but not nearly as intense as before. "So these guys that we're up against are good enough to take him down?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer, or even seem to register her silent nod. "We're not lucky enough to have his super healing ability." She shook her head. "Or have suits of indestructible armor or god-like strength or or the ability to turn into something that can stop a missile with its pinky." 

She knew where he was going with his thoughts, and didn't try to stop him, just readied herself to meet him there. "Nope," she agreed, just to at least to claim she had a say in the decision.

"But we're totally going to jump in and try to stop the bad guys anyway, aren't we?" he finished.

"It seems only fair, what with them coming after us and everything," she mused.

"We are so screwed and in so far over our heads, aren't we?" he sighed resignedly.

She nodded amiably enough. "Probably."

"So, like normal then?" he verified, his eyes crinkling at the edges even if the smile didn't quite reach his lips.

"Pretty much." 

"Awesome."

She held out her hand and it took it readily enough. They sat there like that, together, and waited for the noise of the shop to die down, for the sounds of mopping and dishes to subside, for the lights on the other side of the door to flip down, and for a less than subtle Paulie to announce, "Well, that's it for the night boys and girls."

The door slammed closed and the click of the lock echoed through the now empty outer room. She stood and stretched and waited for him to do the same. He was less than graceful getting to his feet, and relied upon the boxes and wall far too much for her liking. She eyed the way his brow shone with sweat, the way his chest heaved into a barely controlled stutter of a cough, and asked, "How bad? For real this time."

He tried to reach for his pack, and she grabbed it away from him instead, daring him to stall again. He sighed and rested the back of his head and shoulders against the wall. "Shot to the thigh was from Reynolds. Graze to the shoulder was from someone who looked suspiciously like Runke," he dutifully reported. At her look, he reluctantly added, "Ribs are from both, I think? Right side was hurting on ride in, left side was hurting after I got stateside. Arm's from a knife that I got to keep as souvenir though, so it's not all bad."

"It's always good to see the upside of a knife fight," she deadpanned.

He pushed a finger into her shoulder, unerringly hitting the wound dead on. "I fessed up, now it's your turn."

Fair was fair, so she admitted, "Bullet, large caliber." She held up her left hand and gave an exaggerated sigh. "Two nails and a manicure I actually liked."

He snorted, completely unperturbed. "We'll get you a new one. You liked that place on Grande, right?"

"Grande Rio, or Grande Hot Springs, because we're not going to either," she replied.

They had finally started to make some headway towards the door, but he stopped to level a look at her. "And just where, pray tell, are we going and why should I follow you anyway?"

She gave him a less than gentle shove and he went with it, but she threw him a bone and answered anyway. "Stark's monstrosity of a building. And you'll follow me because you always do."

"Oh, the big shiny thing with a giant lit up target on it? Yeah, great planning, Nat. I can see why I bow to your judgement," he replied, the sarcasm and false cheer dripping from his tone.

She shrugged, the bag she still carried mixed with her own gear definitely making an impact on her strained muscles. She had experienced far worse in her days, but still would not object to a little downtime that did not involve chasing after idiot snipers with an extremely limited sense of self-preservation. "Stark gave me the head's up about you based on Hill's intel. No check in point explicitly listed, but it was strongly implied. Besides, the place is swarming with media and military and that AI of his. No one can make a move without it becoming national."

"We're safer in the limelight?" he guessed with a groan.

"Better than a dusty back room of a _Malta Shopa_ ," she pointed out, and knew he would have no argument against it.

She expected him to flip her off and wasn't disappointed. She didn't expect the two gyros with fries and two more shakes sitting on the desk of the office they now entered though, which was kind of nice. They did a quick once over of the place anyway, careful to keep away from the windows despite the blinds and gate carefully lowered over them. Satisfied there was nothing more sinister than the potential for high cholesterol waiting for them, they slumped back to the office and dug in.

"So, seventy years?" Clint asked around a mouthful of lamb. "They pretty much have everything then?"

She dabbed a bit of sauce from the corner of her lips before she smiled and answered, "Not everything."

Clint made a face. It was not adorable despite the smear of tzatziki near his cheekbone. "You said you core-dumped SHIELD's secrets to the word," he reminded her.

Syntax and details. He swore he paid attention to both and yet... " _SHIELD's_ secrets, yes," she confirmed. She sipped at her shake, the chocolate flavor opposing that of the seasoned yogurt. "Avengers secrets, no. Stark Industries secrets, no. Red Room secrets, no. Crazy Carnie Sniper secrets, no."

She saw his eyes light up slightly, but there was still uncertainty in his tone when he said, "And you really don't think they had backups in place to abuse in case this happened? I mean, you're good, Nat, but even you can't hack and lock that many files in that short of time."

"Didn't have to," she admitted. "I let JARVIS in with a request to protect anything Avengers or Stark related, picked and chose a few others, and abused the holes in their data for the rest." She handed Barton the last of her gyro, having had more than enough heavy foods for the day and knowing he could probably use it more than her given his escape anyway.

He took it readily enough and asked, "How big of holes?"

"1984."

He choked down a bite and swallowed before he managed, "Do you care to be a little less cryptic?"

"Hydra's data was SHIELD's data. They didn't dig any deeper and didn't know there was any deeper to dig," she explained. She thought back to the significance of four little numbers, and the relief she felt when she heard them. She shook her head and said, "They only knew my most recent alias. Fury knows. You know. They didn't. Fury self-encrypted anything important enough that he didn't trust the WSC with, or simply didn't log it at all. They got a hell of a lot, don't get me wrong, but they didn't get everything."

Clint seemed to contemplate that for a moment, chewing slowly and then slurping his malt down to the dregs. Finally, he raised his eyebrows and said, "Congratulations, Natalia, you're important."

She punched him in the shoulder just beneath his wound, not hard, but with enough force for him to rub at it with a puppy dog face. "So are you, you idiot. Why do you think they didn't know about your stash or escape route? Let's just hope Stark is important enough for them not to know of the back way into that tower of his."

He dipped the last of his pita into his sauce and guessed, "You have a plan?"

She purposefully shifted in her seat slightly and made a show of looking away, knowing he wasn't fooled but also knowing he'd appreciate the humor. "For loose definitions of the word plan, yes," she admitted.

He just snorted, not fooled in the least. "Awesome."

They cleaned up their mess and shouldered their gear, Clint looking less than inconspicuous with a quiver and bow. He had actually somewhat planned, so the quiver was of the smaller variety and slung at his waist allowing the backpack to be tossed over his shoulders to fully free his arms to shoot. Her own purse-like bag was positioned cross-body style underneath the unzipped hoodie allowing ease of access to the various weapons she had hidden about her. If you ignored his readily apparent arsenal, they would look just like any two other slackers out for a late night stroll home from whereabouts unknown.

She reached for one of of those weapons now, blade held close against her inner arm, pommel in palm, as she approached the door to the back alleyway. She was far from the misguided belief that they would be able to make it all the way to where she stashed transportation and then all the way to Stark's place undetected. She only hoped that detection was minimal and, more importantly, survivable.

The alley was surprisingly clear. The street beyond it less so. She spotted three agents at the north end and four at the south closer to Barton's place with undoubtedly more to be had. She already knew of snipers up top so climbing up and around was a no-go as well.

Clint peered around her shoulder and then ducked back to the safety of the dumpsters. "Where'd you park?" he asked, arrow already in place.

"How fast can you run?" she countered.

She didn't give him a chance to respond before she took off, the element of surprise somewhat on their side. She heard his muttered, "Shit," in the background, but it was more of a grumble than a complaint on his status, so she paid it no attention and focused on the task at hand instead.

She walked out into the light of the street, big and bold and unperturbed, knowing all eyes were on her. All eyes were then on the first man to drop, then the second, and she was close enough to the third to take him down with a minimum of sound. She figured the snipers would spot them soon enough, but they should have at least another ninety seconds or so to hit the next block before any sort of alarm was raised.

The agents were either second rate or not expecting anything to happen at this point in the game as she and Clint managed to make it a whole two blocks, almost blending in with the foot traffic of the night, before she heard the first round of shouts. They darted and dodged and had incredible luck right up until what she thought was a pedestrian turned out to be Pedersen. She credited him for always having that everyday moron look, and then ducked to avoid his punch. The time it took to take him down was a delay they really could have done without. She succeeded, of course, but it bought Carolington enough time to get close enough to try a shot at them both, scattering the crowd, the reverberation like a siren in the night.

At that point, they simply ran. It wasn't pretty, but it was the simplest and most obvious plan of attack. The agents from the south caught up with them and brought some friends, and she was forced once again to resort to hand-to-hand within view of their prime method of escape.

Dagne went after Barton, gun knocked out of hand almost immediately, but also knowing well enough to strike towards the wounds he himself knew existed because he himself put them there. She disabled one man and disarmed another, having to do so twice when he replaced his lost beretta with a knife. She threw the knife at Dagne, taking no small pleasure in the way it lodged soundly in his thigh, Barton ripping upward and outward, finally able to render the man unconscious or possibly more when he collapsed from the wound.

Giving up on stealth and finesse, she grabbed her own gun and aimed for kneecaps. She had worked side by side with several of these men for years, saved their lives while they arguably assisted in saving hers. She may not kill them outright, not when there was the potential to at least obtain more information from them, but she could make the rest of their lives damned uncomfortable.

They reached her car soon enough and slid into the security of its not quite standard safety features. A bullet bounced off the glass next to her head, and she floored it to the sound of approaching sirens in the background.

"Well, that was fun," Clint commented. He was breathing heavily, likely having further damage to his ribs, and the wound to his forearm had torn open, soaking the long-since white gauze through with red.

She was tempted to make a comment about how the bill to detail her car and remove any and all of his bloodstains was going to be charged to his account, but instead simply reminded him, "It's not over yet."

She wove in and out of traffic with the skill of one who had lived in New York for far too long. Clint kept watch and called out suspicious vehicles, and ones who happened to be going their way despite their way circling back in itself three times already over the course of several miles. No one openly took shots at them, which actually alarmed her more than if they had done so. It meant Hydra had something else planned for them, and that was never a good thing.

She waited until she could actually see Stark's monstrosity of a building light up the skyline to fish her phone out of her bag one-handed, the other still on the wheel. She unlocked it, keyed a sequence, and then tossed it to Clint while she held up her ID card. "Scan this, and then stay quiet," she ordered.

As a testament to how long they had worked together, he actually complied without commentary. There was a pause, a click, and then the carefully modulated tones of JARVIS asking, "Good evening, or dare I say good morning, Ms. Rushman. How may I assist you?"

Despite the adrenaline racing through her body, she kept her voice calm and professional as she requested, "Please notify Mr. Stark that I have located the file he requested. I apologize for the late hour, but he did state that he needed it immediately, and I believe there is still work that may need to be completed prior to the deadline he set."

She dodged a Buick that may or may not have been driven by a drunk and may or may not have been a decoy to slow her down before JARVIS came back with, "Mr. Stark thanks you for your hard work and dedication on the Flynn matter, and inquires as to whether you request a courier to allow you to return to your new family."

"No, that's fine, I'm already on my way. I do expect my own premium parking space, plaque and all if we're able to complete this tonight though," she replied, hoping the world's smartest AI could figure out her meaning.

"Of course, I will see to it myself," came the response. "Would you prefer nearest your new office or the daycare facilities?"

Natasha glanced over to Clint, took in his wide and amused eyes even as she took in just how soaked his bandage was and the way he listed slightly to the right. "Daycare," she decided. "I fear I am a bit overprotective with little Francis."

"Understandably so," JARVIS said, and the voice sounded downright amused, another testament to Stark's creation. "I will see to it that everything is in place. I look forward to your arrival and wish you the best for the remainder of your evening."

Clint disconnected the phone for her and the screen had not yet even faded to black before he blurted, "Flynn? Francis?"

She dodged another car that swerved wildly, more and more convinced of a setup. "Did I forget to mention that you're my son? A bit big for your age, and a bit needy at times, but you know, you are a special, special child."

"That I am," he agreed amicably enough. He shifted in his seat and was unsuccessful at hiding the deep intake of breath the action caused.

"Status?" she inquired.

"Good enough to get us there, though I might want a nap before the next decades' long brewing symphony of betrayal," he quipped. She deemed that fair enough as there really was no other alternative than the route they were already taking. Either they went to Stark's and dealt with the crisis there, or they moved on to a likely already sabotaged safehouse and dealt with it there only with fewer resources at their disposal. As she had already declared, she opted for Stark and his tech- and safety-producing paranoia over the unknown and un-swarming with media, even at this less than prime time.

Three blocks out from the tower, traffic became suspiciously thick, as in thicker than it had been up to that point and removing any potential doubt of a setup. She wasn't dumb enough to leave the safety of a bulletproof vehicle and risk it on foot, but she did begin a final mental inventory of what weapons she had available and just where they were currently stashed. 

Barton sat up a little straighter in his seat, eyed his bow wistfully before realizing he couldn't use it within their current confines, and the opted for stealing one of her guns from just below the glove compartment instead. "Do we need to warn Stark that we're bringing company?" he asked.

She shook her head, but kept her eyes on the road. "Already essentially did when I made the call," she reminded him. "We may insult him, a lot actually, but he is smart enough to figure out we won't be alone."

"He does like to remind us of his genius," Clint mused. Then, with barely a pause, "On your left."

He didn't shout and he barely used any inflection above the casual, but she knew he was calling out targets. The question would be whether Reynolds, Michaels, and their ilk would make their attempt now, or hope for a possible in to finish off Stark and make a grab at whatever he had stashed about the place. 

The car to her left dropped back and she braced herself for the inevitable impact. She may have known it was coming, but it still did not stop her from swearing under her breath at her no doubt newly damaged bumper. Whoever was making the call had decided to split the difference then: weaken and slow their arrival, allowing a team to get in place and make the most of the opening. She hoped Stark was ready, not just for the obvious infiltration, but also for the second team that would try to slip in during the upcoming fight and lay low until they could attack should the first team fail.

The tail bounced off of her bumper again but she didn't slow down. She skipped over the obvious parking ramp with its questionable crowds and headed for the one few knew about, the reinforced gate that looked like not much more than a wall still soundly closed. If she hit that Hydra would be the least of their worries, so she was quite pleased with the speed at which it simply rolled back and went from solid mass of metal to vehicle-appropriate opening in the matter of seconds.

She veered a hard right as soon as she could, and caught the gate descending with the same expediency, crushing the second of the tails and at least one agent's leg when he tried to get in on foot. She swung open her door and hit the ground in a roll, weapons drawn. She heard Barton do something similar, three quick shots fired and then the twang of an arrow. 

She used a support beam for cover and managed to at least take the remaining vehicle out of play as a battering ram. Unfortunately, said vehicle was an SUV and half a dozen agents poured out to join the other four already headed their way. Two took aim at her and she disabled them easily enough, opting for keeping them alive as Pepper did not need the headache of that particular paperwork. Three went directly after Barton and she saw Reynolds himself lead the charge on that, pleased Clint would at least be able to get out some of his aggression.

She had only spared him a second of a glance, but now she found she was down to only three agents of her own. A double grip on her wrist and shoulder notified her as to where at least one of her final opponents disappeared to, gun now soundly across the floor. Unfortunately for him, it was not her injured shoulder, which meant that, despite his best attempts to dislocate it, she still had the leverage to launch a counterattack. She twisted and used the beam to her advantage, running up and and over, the loose fabric of the stolen sweatshirt she still wore making the man's grip less than effective, or at least less than effective enough for her needs.

By the time she had disarmed and taken him out of play, her remaining opponents had advanced. Normally three on one would be child's play but she was admittedly slightly off her game due to exhaustion and injury. Mix in the fact that she had personally sparred with and trained these men in the past, knew their preferred forms of attack as much as they knew her own, and she was not necessarily looking forward to the ensuing battle. Not that she was going to run from it, and not that she planned to lose in any way, shape, or form, but she knew this one was going to hurt like hell.

Only it didn't.

It didn't because suddenly they had backup in the form of a custom-made, damned near indestructible suit of weaponized armor and one truly pissed off former second-in-command of SHIELD. Stark didn't risk his company's security force, not here, not when they could hold off any secondary attack at the main entrance in full view of the various cameras crews assembled there and further the publicity he had been trying to build over the past few days. Instead, he relied upon himself and three highly trained if a bit worn around the edges agents to take out the remaining seven insurgents.

It really didn't take long after that. Hill shouted a reminder of, "Kneecaps, not headshots if you can avoid them," and Stark's fancy suit managed to take out as many as Maria's crack shots, perhaps more because Reynolds collapsed to the floor even though she knew he had been engaged in hand-to-hand with Barton last time she checked. She finished with Richards, giving him an extra kick to the temple just because she could, and then, finally, it was over.

She heaved a breath and stumbled-stepped over to Barton who was heaving one of his own. She leaned her good shoulder up against his bad and found herself supporting slightly more of his weight than she had first suspected she would be. She didn't get a chance to comment on such though as Clint himself interrupted the ensuing silence with, "Well, that sucked."

The floor reverberated with each heavy footfall as the Iron Man suit approached. The mask flipped up to reveal a somewhat tired yet overwhelmingly relieved looking Tony. Covering, as always, he put his gauntleted hands on his metal hips and quipped, "Well, I was going to invite you to stay but,  
if these are the type of friends you keep, I'm banning sleepovers outright."

Maria snorted. She paused from methodically disarming the agents loyal to Hydra to say, "Like you don't have entire floors ready for each of them already." Hill continued along her way and Natasha knew she should assist, even though most of the men she had taken down were clearly unconscious and would stay that way for quite some time. She moved to help anyway, but was stopped by a pointed, "You should have that shoulder looked at, it might have torn open again. I'm not even going to ask about Barton because I know his standards and can only assume the worst."

"Hey!" Clint protested. It would have been more effective had he not be trying to regain us balance after Natasha removed her support. "It's not like there's a Medical department to report to anymore anyway. Ooh, wait, does that mean no more reports to file either? Because that would be awesome."

Maria leveled a look in his direction. "Yes, Barton, because the most important thing about a transglobal multi-billion dollar spy agency falling to its mortal enemy is the lack of paperwork to file," she said blandly. "There are still doctors loyal to SHIELD, and I have enough agents from other agencies following me around on a daily basis that I'm sure we can get them to make some recommendations if you need them."

Clint opened his mouth to say something he no doubt found witty but never got the chance to voice it. He, and the few people still standing, all turned at the shuffle of feet against the concrete. Natasha had a charge ready, Clint had an arrow, and Maria a bullet, but none were needed as it was simply a slightly disheveled looking Bruce Banner waving from the corner. "I can offer my services if needed," he shrugged. "I'm not actually that kind of doctor, but..."

"How rusty are your skills, Doc?" Hill asked. Her lips curled as if she already knew the answer, and it reminded Natasha that she had been working with Stark and everyone associated with his stronghold for the past few days.

"About as rusty as the scalpels in my bag, but I make due," Banner admitted shamelessly.

"Wait a sec," Clint cut in, trying to balance on his good leg without looking like he was balancing on his good leg. "You had a Hulk on reserve and didn't tell us?"

"I figured Natasha might like that car of hers in one piece," Tony replied, completely unconcerned. He eyed the rear damage and amended, "Well, close to one piece. I should be able to fix that, by the way, or find someone who can."

Banner took a step closer. He reached for his glasses with his usual nervous tick, but stopped himself after only a quick adjustment. "What do you say? At the very least you should get off that leg for a while."

"And bathe," Natasha added because she could. 

Clint flipped her off, which was expected. Also expected was him opting for the more local of options. "I've had bullets dug out in dark alleys with nothing but a leather strap and a bottle of Jack to kill the pain. I know Stark here has better quality hooch than that, so you're already ahead," he pretended to reason.

Bruce smiled, a flit of a thing, and then gestured to Natasha. "I understand if you'd prefer someone else, but the offer extends to you as well."

She turned to look at Maria, who made rough shooing motions. "Trust me, you don't want to be down here when the Feds descend. It will be like snack time for kindergarteners." As if on queue, the sounds of sirens filtered through the metal and concrete. "Go claim sanctuary with Stark. He and his ilk will keep people busy for long enough for you to at least get in a decent nap."

Tony made a face. "The matter happened on Stark property and involved those with signed contracts to the company - yours are up in your suites by the way, sign them quickly - my lawyers should be able to keep them off your backs for far longer than that." Now it was his turn to make the motions, which frankly looked ridiculous while he was still wearing the bright red suit of armor. "Go on! JARVIS will make sure no one stops the elevators before the residential floors and then you'll be home free for the night, or at least what's left of it. We can meet up for lunch if you're awake."

Clint moved as if headed towards where Bruce had appeared from, but Natasha first headed towards her car. She pulled any obvious weapons, and then pulled the ones from the hiding places most likely to be searched. She tried to open the trunk, but found it crushed just enough to make it stick. Stark was there though, and his wearable mechanics made short work of popping it open. His eyes widened at what was inside, even as he helped her shove things into the various duffle bags tucked to the side. "Do you need a cart for this? A Mack truck?"

Clint grabbed the spare bow and quiver she had packed, but Tony wouldn't let go of the two bags he had taken when she tried to reach for them. A whistle, and one of his wheeled menaces of a robot appeared, arm at the ready. "Bring these to my shop and lock it down to just us," he ordered.

The robot beeped and JARVIS sounded over the speakers, "Understood, sir."

Off of Natasha's look, he explained, "No one from the FBI, CIA, or any other acronym-loving group of assholes has gotten close to my shop, and they never will. Biometrical locks plus pass codes, plus a little watchdog named J that makes life a living hell for anyone who tries."

"I do my best, sir," the watchdog in question confirmed.

She had seen just what the AI was capable of as well as figured Stark was offering his version of an olive branch so she might as well offer one of her own. It was a major sign of trust he was showing, if he wasn't lying through his teeth. Considering how many weapons she still held, and how few she needed to take him down if necessary, she relented.

"Just one question," she asked, pocketing a packet full of electrical charges that he didn't even raise an eyebrow at despite the susceptibility of his multiple electronics. "What was that about a bonus?"

Which is how she found herself barely two hours later, lounging in a tub the size of a whirlpool. The bubble bath was one from Pepper's stash and wasn't her own, but she had to admit that it ranked a close second. A soft towel lay to the side, and an even softer robe hung from a hook on the door. There was a bed turned down with sheets that held an impossibly high thread-count, and a bottle of something that was not commercially available in the U.S. chilling in the freezer.

Clint would likely stumble around in a few minutes, drugged and happy and exhausted and not wanting to be alone even if he covered it with the need to check up on her instead. He would pass out on the couch despite his own comfortable bed waiting for him, and she would fall asleep to the sounds of his less than gentle snoring. When they woke, they would deal with the fallout and media circus, direction taken from whatever Maria was feeding the Feds while Natasha sat and soaked and, finally, felt herself begin to relax.

The future was uncertain and she had no idea what it held should she dare to glance at the road ahead. For a change, she was not planning out the next fifteen moves but simply dealing with the present and everything it had to offer, or throw in her face as the case may be, because uncertainty was an understatement at this stage in the game. There was still much to do, but at least it seemed she had earned herself some decent allies along the way, and even managed to keep them safe as much as they tried to do the same for her. She would continue to look out for them and, as much as she would deny it if asked, hoped they would continue to look out for her as well. 

She wouldn't try to fool herself into thinking it was nothing more than a consolidation of resources as that would be an insult to everyone involved. They were allies, yes. They were friends even. They were something more than that, or at least had the potential to be. Barton and Wilson would likely call it family, but she didn't exactly have enough experience with that terminology to lodge an opinion on that matter. There was a bond though, that she could not deny. They would risk their lives to make the world a better place, and go above and beyond that should one of those they deemed their own to be at risk. She still had not figured out just what qualified naming a near stranger as "theirs," but there was that undeniable _something_ that she noticed in a select few in her life, and now those select few seemed to be congregating into something bigger, larger, more.

She listened as Barton let himself into her rooms, watched him through the sliver of a crack between the door and the frame. He would let her be, just as she would do the same for him, but both would know exactly where the other was, and derive no small amount of comfort and security from that knowledge. She closed her eyes knowing he had watch, and sank into the warmth of her bath and contemplated whether Banner's zen-like status could handle so many of them so close for so long, then wondered the same about herself. 

Wilson and Barton would either be excellent for each other, or drive the rest of them over the edge. Rogers and Stark would make better men out of each other, and both deny it. Hill and Fury would plot and plan and create something even more powerful than SHIELD from the few scattered ashes. As for herself? She would stick to what she knew best: using her knowledge and skills to assist when needed, and to protect when things got out of hand. She had kept enough secrets safe from the public to have more than a little bartering room if it came down to that, but also had enough new curiosities to keep her busy for a while. 

 

The future was uncertain. Who she would be spending it with a little less so. She would keep her eyes open and her head down and maybe she might make it through. Maybe she wouldn't even be alone when she did so.

 

End.


End file.
